Never Alone
by LostinOblivion
Summary: Late one night, two people battle their demons together. Spoilers for Orison and Closure. M/S UST.


_Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed my last couple stories. If you're a writer, you know how much that's worth, and if you're not, I wish I could put you in brain a moment to feel the happy dance it does each time! _

_I know a lot of people hated these episodes, I really loath what they did with Pfaster (the whole the devil made me do it thing), but I thought Scully shooting him at the end went a long way to redeeming it. As for Sein Un Zeit and Closure, I admit it was a weird way to tie up the Samantha thing, but I found Closure at least, to be very moving. That look on his face at the end was just spooky. A beautiful episode. I hope that even if you didn't enjoy the eps, you at least enjoy the fic._

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Scully shifted in her bed, bringing the blankets up to her chin, turning toward the window. She was cold, even with the heat and the blankets. When the air had hit the layer of perspiration covering her body, the chills from her nightmare were magnified. It wasn't the first since she'd returned to her apartment a month ago, and it undoubtedly wouldn't be the last.

The son of a bitch was permanently imprinted on her brain.

When she closed her eyes she could still see his face, feel his hands grabbing at her, the sharp stings of pain as he threw her into the mirror. The sickening, sweet metallic smell of her own blood, the sound of her own terrified screams, and his nasally voice calling her, 'girly girl'.

As the memories flooded over her, the chills grew worse, and Scully hunched deeper under the covers, trying to will the images in her head away. She bit her lip, and thought about calling Mulder. A glance at the alarm clock told her it was 2:30, and therefore way too late to call.

Actually, it wasn't so much that it was late. Mulder was an insomniac, time was relative to him. And, even if he was sleeping, he wouldn't mind her calling. But, after the past week, she didn't want to bother him.

He seemed to be coping well with his mother's death, and finally discovering Samantha's fate. They'd buried his mother four days ago, and she'd held his hand through the ceremony. He hadn't cried then, but he cried afterward; she'd held him, and felt his tears dampen her jacket. Otherwise, he'd been perfectly fine.

Tomorrow night, it would be a week since that night in California. Since she'd seen that look on his face. It was a look she'd never seen him wear, and she'd thought after almost seven years that she'd seen them all. This one was different.

Happiness, peace, relief, it was hard for her to say what it was that she saw. It was almost as if he was seeing the sun, feeling it's warmth for the first time, after living a lifetime in a cold, dark cave. Maybe for Mulder, that wasn't so far from the truth, considering what Samantha's disappearance did to his family.

_I'm free._

That had been a startling statement from Mulder, who it seemed to her, finally realized that his lack of closure concerning his sister's disappearance was a shackle on his life. Even Mulder grew tired of endless pursuit; she couldn't have imagined it before that moment. She couldn't have imagined he'd be so soothed upon discovering that his baby sister was dead, had been dead for years.

It had been beautiful to see. To see a man finally liberated from the weights he dragged around for over twenty years. That night there had almost been an innocence in his eyes, in his smile, perhaps that of a twelve year-old boy teasing his sister.

There was a sudden pounding on her door. It made her momentarily relaxed body tense. Visions of Pfaster raging through her bedroom, invading her home, flashed through her mind unbidden. Though she had little doubt as to who it was, Scully grabbed her gun anyway, still shaken from the nightmare. Shivering against the chill, the gun was almost warm, security in her hand.

Shuffling through her dark apartment in her teal flannel pajamas and brand new fuzzy slippers, Scully got the door just as another round of now, less enthusiastic pounding began. She undid the locks, 9mm hanging from her right hand, trigger finger resting along the barrel, and pulled it the door open.

He looked horrible, one arm bracing him again the wall as if he'd fall without it. Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket, sneakers, Mulder's typical casual wear was accompanied by extraordinarily messy hair and red eyes.

He noted her gun, raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Bad dream," she said.

"Must have been one hell of a dream, Scully."

"Pfaster."

He nodded solemnly, agreeing. "Bad dream."

She waved him in, shutting the locking the door behind him. He made for the couch, walking slowly and half hunched, as if all that weight had come suddenly back to crush him. The room was lit only faintly by the few beams of streetlights that managed to break through her curtains, but she could still see the look on his face.

Wounded puppy. The once exuberant, innocent little pup that someone kicked one too many times. Now, shrunken in on himself, with his ears plastered to his head, and his tail perpetually tucked between his legs, always ready for the next blow. Scully had seen her partner wear that look before, and it hurt her every time. He looked almost broken.

She sat beside him, and took his hand between hers. He looked at her, and laced their fingers together.

"What happened in your dream?"

"Nothing special, just a replay of the events." Her voice came out detached, almost professional.

He chuckled softly. "Only you Scully, would call that nothing special."

She just shrugged. It wasn't much different than any other night since that night.

"You've been having that dream often?" He frowned.

A nod, then at his worry-furrowed brow, "It'll get better, Mulder, it always does."

He watched her a long while, before finally nodding himself, and staring back at the room.

It always got better. It was either a very sad statement, or one that could label them marvels of emotional health. Over the years, they'd developed a system for traumatizing cases, to help them cope. It involved a lot of late night phone calls, late night visits, and many evenings of beer, pizza, and bad movies. So far, it worked, eventually pushing out the nightmares out of their minds, offering them peace before the next difficult case brought new nightmares.

When it stopped working, then they'd have a serious problem.

Scully watched Mulder stare out into the dark of her apartment, his tight grip on her hand not escaping her attention. He looked a little lost. "You want to talk about it?"

He turned to her, and then his head dropped to look in his lap. Sitting so close their bodies were pressing, she felt it when a small tremor ran through his body. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

"They're all dead, Scully...my whole family...dead...I, I don't know what to do."

She saw the tears glistening in his eyes, and pulled his body against hers, just before he broke down. His body shook gently against hers, and his face planted in her neck, leaked tears that slid down her chest. It was the third time in a week that she held him while he cried, but she couldn't deny him. And, she didn't want too.

Ahab had caught Moby Dick, but was still left with tragedy. It wasn't fair.

She held him until his sobs quieted and his body stilled, then she ventured to speak, and even as a whisper, her voice was almost abrasive as it cut through the silence. "Mulder, I'm sure it doesn't feel like it now...but you're not alone."

He finally unplanted his face from her shoulder, hazel eyes still glossy with the few tears left hanging. Seven, almost eight years she'd been looking into those eyes, and the pain inside hadn't lessened a bit. Except this last week. But, now it was back, and it broke her heart. She wanted to force out the demons that had been raging inside him for the last twenty-six years. She wanted to give him back that peace he'd had for such a short time.

He raised a hand to trace her cheek, and seemed to just watch her breathe. "I know," he finally said, "And, you aren't either."

Tears began to burn the backs of her eyes at his gentle, protective gaze, and she took a deep, shaky breath.

"You don't have to deal with it alone, Scully."

"I know." Her voice came out high and breathy. Then she leaned into him, as he had into her, and felt his arms wrap around her and hold her tight. She held him back, fingers dug into his back, head resting on the lowest part of his shoulder. Surrounded by the feeling of his body against hers, the smell of him, the sound of his breathing, she closed her eyes and embraced the familiar safety of Mulder.

He rested his head against hers, and she barely heard him whisper. "Thank you."

Scully wasn't sure if he was thanking her for comforting him, or letting him comfort her back. Probably both. But, it didn't matter. They fell asleep holding each other, both feeling more secure with the other in their arms.


End file.
